Now Junior was getting it. His face was lighting up. “Why, Father,” he began, and faltered. “Why, Father—why, Father—you really like me!”
Junior felt strong hands gripping his shoulders and once more the vivid recollection of the street boys and the big man who comforted him. “You know what one of those letters says, Junior—I’m just crazy about you.”
“Oh, Father, why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“Well, what’s the use of having a great writer in the family anyway!”
They laughed and looked at each other and found that the strange thing that kept them apart was gone for ever. In the future they might differ, quarrel even, but the veil between them was torn asunder at last.
The rest of the boys had finished dinner when Junior came down, leading in his tall bronzed father with the perfectly fitting clothes and the romantic scar on his handsome face.
“Say, fellows, wait a minute. I want you to know my father.” He did it quite as if accustomed to it, but Mrs. Fielding down at the end of the table could see that father and son were reeking with pride. “He’s my son; I’m his father.”
“So this is Blackie?” said Phil. “Did you give him that message in my last letter?” Even his father could lie when he wanted to.
“Sorry, I forgot.”
Phil turned and gave his old classmate a shameless wink. “I can’t really blame the kid. I write him such awfully long letters.”